


Waiting

by Arithanas



Series: Love Demands Sacrifices [24]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: Animal euthanasia, Childbirth, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-28
Updated: 2011-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 18:39:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4232562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1647, Blois. A teenager was lost while the house is in full commotion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting

Before you were conceived I wanted you  
Before you were born I loved you  
Before you were here an hour I would die for you  
~ _Maureen Hawkins_

 

Night had fallen and no one could sit still in Bragelonne, exception made of the lord of the land, who stayed in the salon with a book in hand, sitting in his favorite chair, watching the fire. The only thing that betrayed his concern was the constant inquisitive looks he threw to the little antechamber. The servants tried not to bother him, but the constant dashes among the hothouse and the kitchen and the guest room echoed through the mansion. The walls resounded as if the house had been deserted but, until a few hours ago, Bragelonne was bustling with activity.

The frightened neighing of a horse sounded not too far from the mansion.

The Count knew that was Raoul’s horse, the beast had returned limping, a couple of hours ago, without his rider. The veterinarian was already here, with the intention to heal the brute. That was an expensive gelding, a good mount. Any other time, the Count had been in the stables, supervising the work of the expert, but, for the present, he cared little for the fate of equine. Dead or alive, the animal didn’t matter. The absence of his son made him edgy, but he had dedicated his life to hide his moods, and the Count of La Fère will be damned if now he was lacking the discipline to persevere. The boy would appear at any moment, perhaps dirty and ashamed of having lost control of the mount, but yet, he would make his arrival.

The master of the house placed the book on the chair and changed his position. He wanted a sip as he had not done in years, but to call the servants was not the best idea at the moment. The service was thrown in confusion, which was the cause that Raoul was not in the state. At noon, the Blaisois’s wife began with the work to bring her child into the world. Very discreetly, Charlot's wife had told him, and asked him his permission to use the guest room, since servant quarters are too far away from the kitchen. The approval was granted, but that woman’s eyes didn’t stop glancing at the Viscount, who was studying by the fire. The Count wondered when modesty won.

This man blamed himself to have bowed to prudery, even though, one summer morning, he had accompanied Raoul to the paddock so the child could witness the birth of a foal. When he was five years old, his son was full of questions about life, showing certain things to the boy was better than burden him with descriptions. Raoul was thirteen now and had sufficient comprehension to assimilate the birth of a baby, it was not too different from a foal. Nevertheless, he sent his son for a surgeon, just in case the young mother may need help.

The Count realized that he had been playing with the beads of his rosary in the pocket of the coat. He forced himself to keep his hands still.

The girl gave a cry full of pain. Was she too young to give birth? The Count had to admit that he didn’t know.

Grimaud appeared in the door of the antechamber, one could see the emotions of the day was overwhelming; if the Count didn’t know the first thing about women and pregnancy, his valet knew even less, but still the Breton felt morally obliged to keep up, he had raised Blaisois and it was nearly as expecting his grandson. One look was enough to understand that there was no news of Raoul; the Count was forced to present a nonchalant face, although he knew beforehand that the good Grimaud could not mislead.

“How's the delivery?” he asked, making a signal for him to come.

“Euphrasie said the mother’s well,” Grimaud responded, but he didn’t come entirely into the room.

“Who?” Athos asked, raising his eyebrows. The name didn’t sound familiar.

“Charlot’s wife,” he said, reducing himself to the paraphrase which they always used.

They share a worried smile at the misunderstanding. Grimaud made a signal, the Count rose from his chair. Whether Grimaud wanted to get away from birth labor or he had something to show, it suited his master to move away from the chair, the occasional laments and the forced stillness. They left the house side to side; a long time ago both had reached a tacit agreement to do so, because it was easier to concentrate on the signals. Without a word, as they walked toward the stable, Grimaud informed him that he had sent a group of servants to look for the Viscount; that Blaisois was out of his mind; that dinner, unfortunately, would not be ready on time. The Count nodded at the report, but his mind was distracted by the miserable horse's neigh, and his valet had not given him details about the horse, which only meant the beast was hopeless.

"Oh, _M. le comte_..." the veterinarian muttered when he saw that they come to the stable. He was wringing his hands over his leather apron.

Displaying patience, the Count heard the explanations of expert, nodding from time to time. He asked to be taken next to the wounded animal, the beast was anguished, it was obvious by the way he exposed the teeth and by his wide and terrified eyes looking for a way to escape. They had to dispatch him. The master of the house had feared that since he put his eyes in the animal.

“My pistol, Grimaud,” he ordered and put his knee on the ground to caress the dapple.

While the servant walked away, the Count looked at the terror-stricken horse. That gray horse was one of the first animals that he had trained in Bragelonne. Five years ago, he had gelded the horse because his son required a safe mount. Raoul had learned to ride on its back. If the Viscount was in the castle, he would make the boy pull the trigger, not only because it was his fault that the horse had no cure, but because he had to learn to kill a horse properly, without causing an unnecessary agony. The Count clicked his tongue as he did when the animal was little more than a colt, and that familiar noise calm down the horse. He spoke to the horse in that soft and affectionate voice, one only three people had heard in this world. He thanked him for his work and exertion, and expressed his hope that the animal could be free from pain soon. He promised to be quick to shoot him. The dapple didn’t understand him, horses do not comprehend human emotions, but the voice reassured him, for it was the voice of the master.

Grimaud had returned, with the usual silence, he slipped the flintlock pistol in the hand of his master and removed himself. For this man, the death of a horse was always somewhat macabre; he loved horses as much as his master. The Count didn’t want to sacrifice the animal, but he also didn’t want see him suffer. He whispered a last goodbye as he stroked his mane with one hand whiles, with the other, he primed the shot. For a moment, he returned to his younger days, he came back to the battle of Nantes, his left thigh was injured, he was bleeding too much, but his hand never trembled when he shot his prized black Andalusian stallion that was dying from a bullet in his belly. Sometimes compassion could be a harrowing task.

The shot was too loud.

Outside the stable, Grimaud attended both the group of men who had returned home without the Viscount, and the group of women who were concerned about the girl who was giving birth. The master of the house left the stable; he wiped his face with a rag to remove the horse-blood spatter. It was done. His eyes met those of Grimaud, who made a small negative sign with his head. No news of Raoul, no news of the baby, at least the horse had ceased to suffer.

The Count grasped the nettle, handed out some orders, requested some advice on what to do with the corpse, and prepared himself to leave the mansion, since he could not sit waiting for his son to show. The stable-boys were busy trying to control the other horses who had witnessed the dispatching of the wounded animal, but still they managed to get the master’s horse outside the building and harness it.

“If _M. le vicomte_ appears, tell him I want a word with him,” the Count ordered once he had controlled his mount, while Grimaud held him the stirrup.

The Breton nodded and made a sign that they could open the gates of the castle. Four strong lads ran to open the wrought-iron gate as the girl threw another cry of pain. For a moment, the Count lost his sense of Christian charity and wanted to do with her as he had done with the horse. It was then that the voices of those who were at the gate distracted him, to cries of "Young master!" a cart drawn by two nags entered the courtyard, the harnesses of the hacks jingled and the wagon wheels creaked; on the driver’s seat, a dirty and hatless Raoul showed a made-in-haste bandage on the forehead. He was accompanied by a man whom the Count seemed to have seen at his house before; there was not much time to think about these things, to recover from the surprise the master made a sign to his valet, if this man was the required surgeon, he was to enter the mansion immediately. Grimaud looked at him gratefully and ran to fulfill his order.

“My apologies for the delay,” said the Viscount jumping off the wagon, “I found it difficult to reach Blois without my horse.”

The Count alighted and, while doing so, he didn’t know if he wanted to beat the boy until good sense entered into that hard head or to embrace his son until the fear of losing him dissolved like clouds under the sun’s rays.

"Well, _M. le vicomte_ , I fear that, from now on, you will find difficult to reach anywhere..." the Count replied with a voice emptied by the ambivalence of moods.

“My horse didn’t return?” the boy asked, gesturing as if he want to remove hair from his face, the blood-soaked wisps getting away from the bandage asserted a serious wound.

“He did,” the Count said, trying to find a way to clarify the situation but, in the poor light coming from the house, his eyes stilled on the bloodstains on this youngster’s drab doublet.

Raoul came to his godfather, his eyes looked at him inquiringly and a hand covered with a suede glove rose to touch the side of the older man's face. The stain of blood that was there was sufficiently eloquent. The lad tried to swallow the tears but could not keep his eyes from welling up.

“You put it down,” it was not a complaint, nor he was trying to place blame somewhere. “It must have been badly hurt...”

“A horse is mortal, _M. le vicomte_. We could not bear to make him suffer,” the Count explained, trying to check he bandage. The birthing woman cried again. Both of them turned their attention to the manor. “But cheer up, my dear Raoul, maybe this night you are the hero.”

The boy didn’t reply, only looked down ashamed of his neglectfulness and the high expense that it entailed. The Count renounced to explain to him that he had made the right choice; as his father and tutor, the Count had to reason that, in a few years, this boy would have to make choices that would cost more than a horse. His adult, practical side took possession of him, and rather than persist in talking about the horse or the woman in labor, he led the youngster to the salon to verify his wounds.

His right hand was inside the pocket of his coat, his fingers took the crucifix and, internally, with discretion, he began to pray the Rosary as a celebration for the lost son he had just recovered and for the newborn that will soon arrive.


End file.
